


Alba gu bràth

by Netgirl_y2k



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Cunnilingus, F/F, happy for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27457585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/pseuds/Netgirl_y2k
Summary: Sansa was the first one to point out what the rest of the country had been politely pretending not to notice: Joffrey wasn’t pretending to be a buffoon for votes or the banter, he really was a nincompoop
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 23
Kudos: 152
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2020





	Alba gu bràth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meilan_Firaga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/gifts).



Lit up by the streetlights, the graffiti caught Margaery’s eye as her car coasted along. THE NORTH REMEMBERS, and a little further along THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH. 

The Queen in the North. That had been Cersei’s cock-up; she really ought to leave the political spin to Margaery. Cersei had briefed every journalist who would pick up their phone that Sansa Stark wasn’t exactly a woman of the people, her late father had been a hereditary lord, and before his untimely death Robb Stark had been on an episode of that ancestry show where they’d revealed that the Starks were distantly descended from the last king in the north three hundred years ago. Cersei had a blind spot about a mile wide for Joffrey and had failed to see that Sansa’s biggest appeal to the Northerners wasn’t that she wasn’t privileged, because she obviously was and she wasn’t fool enough to try to hide it, it was that she _wasn’t_ Joff. And bringing the late, sainted Robb Stark into it had just been sheer stupidity on Cersei’s part.

The car pulled to a smooth halt on a side street. “Thank you, Olyvar.” Margaery thanked the driver and opened her door to be met with the damp rubbish smell of overflowing bins. She wrinkled her nose; her job often involved arriving at, or crashing, meetings via the back way in, and there were always, _always_ bloody bins.

Margaery strode through the hotel kitchens, empty at this hour but for a couple of pot-washers, silent phone to her ear. Look busy and important and as a rule people wouldn’t challenge you; it had worked even before Margaery had actually become important. She took the service elevator upstairs, quickly double checking the room number on her phone even though she was perfectly sure of what it was.

Margaery raised her hand to knock, and the door opened revealing Sansa Stark with a phone pressed to her ear. She opened the door and stepped back, holding a finger to her lips to indicate that Margaery should keep quiet. “Thank you, Theon.” Ah. Interesting. “Yes, I look forward to it.”

Margaery’s opening line had been interrupted by Sansa being on a call, but better late than never. “Sansa Stark,” she said, her mouth curving into a smirk, “the Queen in the North.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “I wish people would stop calling me that.”

“Don’t,” advised Margaery, shucking off her wool coat and dropping it and her purse on the bed. “I could have the PR shop working for a month of Sundays and they wouldn’t come up with a line that good.”

“Do you know what happened to the last actual king in the north?”

They’d found his bones under a multi-storey carpark in Moat Cailin. “Point taken,” said Margaery with a half shrug. “Joffrey’s climbing the walls, by the way.”

Margaery couldn’t be sure what had their inglorious leader more wound up: that he’d been baited into agreeing to a vote on Northern independence, that he’d done so at a press conference, or that he’d been outmanoeuvred by a girl. Joff was one of those men to whom adult women would always be girls.

“Is he going to try to walk it back?” Sansa asked.

“Probably.” Margaery noticed the shadows under Sansa’s eyes as well as the slightly manic gleam. “But you got him to commit to it on camera, so...” 

The only way they’d been able to simmer Joffrey down enough to call a lid and for Margaery to slip out had been by reminding him that any vote on Northern independence would only be advisory, though Margaery suspected that Joff was about to find out that in a democracy it was very difficult to ask people a question and then tell them that you didn’t care about their answer.

“So,” said Sansa, her eyes flicking to where Margaery had thrown her belongings on the bed, “this is a professional visit.”

“I came to tell you,” Margaery took Sansa’s face in her hands and kissed her, “that you were magnificent today.”

“We shouldn’t do this,” said Sansa, nipping at Margaery’s bottom lip, stepping back towards the bed and tugging Margaery with her.

“We should stop,” Margaery agreed, tugging open Sansa’s blouse and popping the top button of her trousers. “We should.” Kiss. “Definitely.” Nip. “Stop.”

They used to mean it, when they said that they shouldn’t do it, that they should stop. Sansa was the government’s political enemy and if their on again off again affair was discovered Margaery’s career would be over, she would be blacklisted, and it would pretty much destroy Sansa’s image and reputation if it got out that she was sleeping with the government’s mistress of the dark arts of political spin. 

Now? Now it was just foreplay.

Margaery gave Sansa a little shove so that she sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Margaery knelt in front of her, her lips quirking up. “Hi.”

She pulled off one of Sansa’s shoes and then the other, squeezing the arch of her foot. Then she reached up to tug Sansa’s trousers off - she thought this every single time, but _damn,_ Sansa’s legs were perfect, long and just divinely curved - and then her underwear. 

When she she looked up again Sansa was blushing bright red. She could only bring herself to hold Margaery’s gaze for a second then she lay back on the bed - bra still on, shirt open, otherwise naked and ready - and threw her arm over her face, hiding.

It was funny how much Sansa had changed since the first time they’d done this, from a deeply closeted undergraduate to an out and proud public figure, but in bed she was much the same: a self-conscious recipient of oral sex and an enthusiastic giver of the same. 

Margaery leaned in and ran the flat of the tongue the length of Sansa’s cunt, she heard the groan Sansa attempted to muffle in her elbow, and as always the sound shot straight between her legs. Margaery grinned against Sansa, and went to work. 

Margaery and Sansa had overlapped at university; Sansa had been a first year the autumn that Margaery and Loras had made a bet to see who could seduce the most freshers, and, well, Margaery had been _determined_ to win. Then Robb Stark had died, and Sansa had dropped out. And, honestly, Margaery hadn't thought much about her one time conquest in the intervening years; she had been distantly aware that Sansa had taken up her brother’s cause of Northern independence and did _something_ in politics up there, but Margaery was a creature of the South, and to those in the southern halls of power the North was that big empty space on the map where the words _Here Be Wolves_ were written.

Then Joffrey had somehow convinced a majority of the country to vote for him. A majority of the _south_ , Sansa always said; a _majority_ , Margaery would reply, there are only about twelve of you up there. Suddenly the Southern media couldn’t get enough of the charismatic Northern politician who pointed out what the rest of the country had been politely pretending not to notice: Joffrey wasn’t pretending to be a buffoon for votes or the banter, he really was a nincompoop. 

And with that Sansa Stark had become a person of professional interest to Margaery - that ill-defined political _something_ she did turned out to be leading the biggest political party in the North. Margaery and Sansa had often found themselves in proximity as Joffrey’s bungled attempts to save the union made everything worse, and Margaery scrambled to put a positive spin on the fact that Joff’s _atoms_ seemed toxic to Northern sensibilities - and Margaery’s professional interest quickly turned prurient. 

And now here they were: with Sansa coming against Margaery’s mouth, groaning through clenched teeth, trying to keep quiet, the bedsheets gripped in white-knuckled fists.

Sansa blinked away the fog of orgasm, and reached out for Margaery. “Come here.” 

Margaery stood - God, hotel carpet was the _worst_ to kneel on - and reached for the zip at the back of her neck. Her dress slipped down, snagged at her hips, and she pushed it down and stepped out of it. She unclasped her bra, and Sansa licked her lips, all of her earlier bashfulness gone. 

Margaery stepped out of her underwear and Sansa scooted up the bed to make room. Margaery climbed up and straddled Sansa’s hips, seeing Sansa’s eyes widen when she felt how wet Margaery was. She took a moment to cup and squeezed Margaery’s breasts - Sansa felt about Margaery’s breasts the way Margaery felt about Sansa’s legs - before taking hold of Margaery’s hips and guiding her up.

Margaery knee-walked up the mattress until her knees were on either side of Sansa’s shoulders and she took hold of the headboard for balance.

Even at university Sansa had been an enthusiastic performer of cunnilingus, but now her enthusiasm was matched with skill. As close as Margaery was, with the taste of Sansa still on her lips, she would put money on it not taking her long to come when Sansa finally got around to touching her. Sansa stroked her palms up the insides of Margaery’s thighs, gripped her ass, pulled her close and _holy shit_. 

Sansa had obviously decided that Margaery didn’t need to be eased into it, and was tormenting her clit with fast, firm flicks of her tongue. Margaery braced one hand against the back wall and tweaked one of her nipples with the other. 

She had been right. It did not take her long to come. At. All. And she had none of Sansa’s inhibitions when it came to making noise. 

Her thighs still trembled as she lay down. Sansa rolled onto her side, head propped up on her elbow, and regarded Margaery fondly. Sansa had a bad habit of getting soppy in the afterglow, so before she could say anything soft, Margaery said, “You need a wife. Or at least a girlfriend. Single politicians make people nervous, they think there’s something wrong with you.” Sansa raised an eyebrow and Margaery mused, “It’s a shame that it didn’t work out with that Mya girl, she gave you a dash of the common touch, which honestly, you badly need.”

“Says the woman who’s the reason I ended things with Mya,” said Sansa. 

“If you felt that guilty-” began Margaery.

“It wasn’t fair to Mya that I couldn’t bear to stop meeting up with you like this, and I felt terrible about that,” said Sansa, “but mostly it was the dossier of opposition research about her that was anonymously delivered to my office.” 

“She wasn’t right for you,” said Margaery shamelessly, “but the optics were really good.”

Sansa was looking fond and soft again. “Whereas you’re right for me, but the optics are terrible.” 

Margaery hoped her squirming looked like nothing more than an attempt to get comfortable on the post-sex sheets. “After you're independent-”

“You think we’ll win? Even with the great Margaery Tyrell working against us,” Sansa teased.

“I think Joffrey is too much of a handicap even for me. And once the North goes, it will be a domino effect with the other nations. When’s your meeting with Yara Greyjoy, by the way?”

Sansa looked momentarily caught out, but recovered well for a woman wearing only a bra and a rumpled, unbuttoned shirt. “I was talking to Theon when you arrived.”

When they first started sleeping together again Margaery had worried that Sansa would try to tempt her North with a job offer; after all, there was no politic way to say to someone ‘sorry, your entire life’s work and bright and happy new country is too small-fry for me’, at least, not if you wanted them to keep going to bed with you. But time passed, and Sansa never asked. She knew Margaery well enough to know that she was already gaming out her accelerated rise through the corridors of power after his party dumped Joffrey over the break up of the union and replaced him with a more useful idiot, and she truly believed that an independent North wouldn’t need political creatures like Margaery. She was wrong, but her idealism was adorable. 

“When you win,” said Margaery, “it won’t be a clean break. The negotiations will go on for months.” She traced the lace edging of Sansa’s bra with her thumbnail, deciding against taking it off, debauched and dishevelled was a pretty good look on Sansa. “Maybe years.”

Sansa took Margaery’s hand and held it against her breast. “I won’t rush into that political arranged marriage anytime soon, then.”


End file.
